


world of pain

by akisawana



Category: RWBY
Genre: Awkward Boners, Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Hand Jobs, Latex Kink, M/M, Major Injury, Medical Kink, Post-Battle Sex, Situational Humiliation, a surprising lack of eye gore, moronsexuality, very rude spanish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana/pseuds/akisawana
Summary: James loses a fight, his metal leg, and his dignity. But he wins in the end.





	world of pain

**Author's Note:**

> Note the first: ignore the posting date, this has no spoilers or relation to vol6
> 
> Note the second: many thanks to justteaforme for the amazing beta and the Spanish. please do not repeat any of this Spanish.
> 
> Note the third: there was a kink bingo. i hit medical, latex, bondage, bodily fluids, and grevious bodily injury in four thousand porntastic words. the other kinks are just bonus. especially moronsexuality. we are the moronsexuals.
> 
> Note the fourth: i damn near titled this "this is not 'nam. this is bowling. there are rules."

Ironwood has the two qualities Qrow admires most. Embodies them, more than anyone else he’s met. General James Ironwood, headmaster of Atlas Academy, is as steady as the glaciers of Mantle, moving slowly but unwaveringly towards justice and carving the rest of the world into his ideal.

Jimmy also has a temper quicker than anyone Qrow’s ever met in his entire obnoxious life, and the only thing sexier than his hot fury is the ice-cold steel of his restraint, the way his eyes burn with the blue at the very center of a lit match, his clenched fist granite-hard, the swell of his chest as he inhales and Qrow can count along with him _one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten_ and then the little muscle along the side of his jaw tightens but he never, ever slips up and snaps back.

Qrow’s a jerk, and he’ll freely admit it, but he’s not cruel. He teases, he only ever teases, and he’ll drag Jimmy straight to the edge, do his damndest to push him over. But it’s only a game, and games have rules, and the first rule of the game is to not bring up the things that would actually hurt James; like how he’s half-metal, weighs about half a ton, and has more than half a deathwish. These three facts among the ones Qrow is usually more than happy to ignore are currently making themselves urgent in the worst ways.

Ironwood’s leg -his metal one, the one aura won’t help with- is crushed from hip to knee by a Beowolf’s teeth, locked in an awkward half-bend he can’t walk on even with help and leaking an alarming amount of fluid.

Ironwood is too heavy for Qrow to carry. Full stop. He barely managed to drag him into this garage in the faint hope there would be _something_ wheeled, there’s not, his luck sucks, they’re going to have to wait for evac. That might take a while.

And none of this wouldn’t have been a problem if Ironwood had _tackled_ the mob capo (whose name Qrow’s already forgotten, he hopes there won’t be a pop quiz later, Glynda doesn’t seem to know or care that he’s no longer a student.) But nope. Ironwood is too aware of his size and weight so he jumped in front of the guy like some sort of human shield. How is this man a general? That was tactically unsound. He’s an idiot with no regard for his own safety.

Because in that moment Ironwood didn’t see the blood on what’s-his-name’s hands, didn’t remember the small mountain of drugs back in the warehouse. All he saw was a person who still had a chance to _change,_ still might choose to help people instead of hurt them. And for this slimmest hope, for faith in humanity despite evidence to the contrary ample as Raven’s tits (and though James offered him a deal Qrow figured the odds of him taking it were about the same as Raven giving up her bandit gig), because nobody deserved to be eaten by Grimm, General James Ironwood was going to do the right thing or die trying.

And, damn his eyes, Qrow was going to follow him. Not because he gave a shit about random criminals. Not because of, fuck you Tai, _love_ because love is chemical. Love is chocolate and whiskey and stupid haircut-surviving crushes and it’s fickle and in Qrow’s admittedly limited experience it doesn’t make people _swallow_.

Trust? Trust is different. Trust was James telling Qrow, years ago, what happened to the right side of his body even though Qrow hadn’t really earned it yet then, and trust was James asking Qrow for help this morning because nobody can find someone who doesn’t want to be found like Qrow, and trust is James moving quicksilver fast because he knows Qrow will be half a second behind him.

If only Jimmy had thought it through all the way. Realized that as amazing as Qrow is, he can really only take out one or two Beowolves at a time, especially if some three-eyebrowed bozo is dangling from a mouth and blocking his shot. If only Jimmy hadn’t put so much trust in a dusty old crow who’s real good at finding people and real bad at keeping them safe.

This is trust. Trust is Qrow helping James peel off his pants and jacket and James not even hesitating. It’s Qrow taking the deadweight of James’ leg while he tries to balance his torso cyber-side up, both their arms shaking from the strain. Ironwood always seems so firm and unmovable because he’s got both feet planted firmly on the ground. Without one, he’s leaning too far one way then another, listing like a drunk.

“This isn’t working,” James says, and Qrow helps him slide back down to lay across Qrow’s legs, pulls him sitting up. Unconcerned about his almost-nakedness with only Qrow to see, James looks like something out of a magazine ad for prosthetics with one leg drawn up and his elbow resting on his knee. If you ignore the ragged hole in his side. “It’s not too heavy, it’s just not balanced right.” He doesn’t need to add any four-letter words, his tone dripping disgust enough.

“I can try to fix it, but I need both hands,” Qrow says, automatically reaching for his flask as he thinks. It’ll keep his hands steady, if nothing else. He’s not sure what-all is under the metal plating, but he has to at least _look_. James nudges him and holds his hand out for the flask, but the only condemnation in his eyes is for Qrow not sharing. Qrow hands it to him and watches James lift it to his lips, watches the interplay of muscle and tendon as two rigid lengths bend around a hinge, watches his wrist rotate to keep the opening pointing up because the liquid will stay level. James keeps his elbow high as he sips. Tai can only do that with one hand, his pauldron keeps his other shoulder from rotating that way. It’s how he straps it on, how the metal is its own counterweight and doesn’t move.

“I have an idea,” Qrow says.

“Am I going to like this idea?” James asks, because he trusts Qrow but he’s not stupid.

“Depends.” Qrow grins at him. “How much do you like being tied up?”

Qrow is not a cop. He knows exactly one way to tie someone up. Well, he knows more than one knot, but they all come from the same place, and that place is Summer Rose’s bed. It’ll work.

There’s a coil of rope on the wall, scratchy but strong, and Qrow uses his cloak to keep it from chafing against James’ skin. Single column tie with a quick release twist just in case they need to get out quick, over the rafter and man Qrow really hopes that doesn’t break but if he never pushed his luck he’d live a lonely life of cold pop-tarts. James curls his good leg under him as Qrow ties the rope around his other wrist, and Qrow cuts the excess off. This second piece goes around his metal ankle, up over the rafter again -forget Qrow’s semblance, several hundred pounds of metal is going to bring the roof down on them -around the first rope and back around to take the weight of the useless leg. 

Now James can find his center of balance and it’s probably not too comfortable but it’s physically possible and that has to be good enough. Qrow decides it’s probably better not to mention he’s never actually done suspension bondage before. James pulls his arm in, wrapping the slack around his fingers, and it’s a weird sort of side-plank but Qrow can see everything he needs to. The ropes act like pulleys, helping him keep his balance. It’ll work.

Qrow can feel the tension humming under his hands, and maybe he should check in with James but this ain’t really a scene and he trusts James to say something. No, it’s gotta just be the entirely reasonable edginess that comes from being crippled and immobilized in a blown-out war zone, with only a walking bad luck charm for help. Qrow would probably think less of James if he _wasn’t_ nervous about being tied up under these circumstances; he can’t even appreciate the picture James presents with his arms stretched high and his head bowed. Qrow’s always been a great fan of shiny things and right now James is _gleaming,_ light tracing the curves of his metal and sweat beading like crystals along his spine. This is not how Qrow imagined the first time getting him naked would go.

The bite is nasty as hell, more than one sizable chunk of metal still out on the battlefield. Qrow thinks of it as _the bite_ only because it’s the least scary way to phrase how the Beowolf grabbed Ironwood in his teeth and shook him like a dog breaking a rabbit’s neck. James should probably be in a hospital or a laboratory or maybe a morgue, definetly with someone who went to college. Qrow’s got a first-aid kit and a field-repair kit. He can put in stitches and build a triple-changer weapon with the best of them, but electricity is as far beyond him as space travel or home cooking. Maybe they’ll be lucky and the wiring will all be intact and he’ll just have to bang out the dents in the socket. Then Glynda will land in a Pelican and take them on a bar crawl. Yeah. That’s totally going to happen.

Qrow finds a pair of latex gloves in the first aid kit, his first actual bit of luck today. His hands are scraped half-raw already from battle and dragging James around, but as long as he doesn’t put up his aura his semblance goes off much less. He really wasn’t looking forward to getting whatever fluid is leaking from James in those little cuts that already sting like wasps, and now he doesn’t have to. Qrow wrinkles his nose at the sharp chemical scent of latex, lets the second glove snap against his wrist.

James _flinches_.

Qrow’s not stupid, he can guess why. “Sorry,” he mutters, and “this might hurt,” but he doesn’t hesitate, pries the mangled and dented remains of James’ thigh plate off the stripped screws. Underneath James’ hip socket is a hot mess of leaking fluid, snapped cables, and holes big enough to stick a finger in. “No _mames_ ,” he hisses under his breath, because he might be able to patch up the holes and replace the most important cables, he can try to get the hip joint moving again...but the knee mechanism is untouched under the plating. Perfectly fine except for the part where it’s frozen in place and all the lights are off. That’s got to be an electrical problem.

“What’s the damage?” James asks.

Qrow pretends not to hear the trembling in his voice. “Nothing I can fix with what I’ve got,” he admits. “Looks like the wiring is wrecked. I’ll put the plate back and let you out.”

“Can you take it off?” James’ voice is half-strangled and more, so bad Qrow has to rub his thumb in circles to comfort himself as much as James. “It’ll make getting around easier at least.”

James makes a noise like he’s being tortured as Qrow sticks his fingers back inside the wound but their unspoken agreement has always been that words unspoken don’t count. So Qrow doesn’t say anything besides, “I can try.” He’s careful but quick as he takes off the rest of the plating, as he pulls out the last few screws. The ball of the joint isn’t going anywhere, but where a human has a femur bone with a knob on the end, James has a metal shaft attached to a ball, and how to remove it is immediately obvious to Qrow. Not a single cable is still in one piece, so that only leaves the two-inch pin to pull out and everything will come off easy. Qrow taps it a few times with the butt of his screwdriver, until enough pokes out the other end for him to grab and pull. “Warning,” he says first, because he’s a gentleman.

James gives Qrow no such courtesy before Qrow gets a face full of of hydraulic fluid, and Qrow splutters, “¡Justo en mis _cojos_!”

“No, _yo_ soy cojo,” James says. “Tú eres un cabeza de chorlito."

Qrow pauses wiping off his face with the hem of his shirt (and maybe spitting a little in it.) “I’m not going to ask what,” he says, even though he really should since Oz keeps threatening to send him down to Vacuo and he doesn’t speak the language nearly well enough to do his job there. Apparently he can’t even swear properly. “But _why_? You don’t seem the kind of guy to like, well. Sand.”

It’s probably some boring diplomat thing, Qrow figures as he gets a finger in to plug up the leak with one hand, roots through the field-repair kit with the other. He gives himself a point when James says, “We get at least eight or ten students from Vacuo every year. Sometimes they’re a team of older students expanding their horizons.”

“Warning,” Qrow says again, and James stops breathing. He slides his finger away and the foam gun’s nozzle in at the same time, pulls the trigger until white stuff is leaking around the edges. James lets out a noise that’s half grunt, half whine, and behind his back Qrow winces in sympathy but doesn’t ask how he’s doing. This is clearly rough as hell on him, the least Qrow can do is respect his attempts at hiding it.

James takes a deep breath, and another as Qrow runs his fingers around the seam one more time, making sure there’s nothing else besides gravity holding it in place. “Sometimes they’re young and homesick,” James continues, “and on top of everything else learning a new language. The least I can do is the same.”

It’s been what, five years? And Qrow is still getting blindsided by how, at the very core of General Ironwood, beats a heart entirely too kind and too soft to survive Grimm, much less politics. How when Ironwood sees a problem, he takes it upon himself to solve it, not pass it off to someone else or decide he’s too busy. How much Ironwood cares about each and every one of the kids in his charge. It’s easy for Qrow to forget why Ironwood came into the game; with all the intrigue and secret missions and organized crime busts, he rarely sees James around students. But they’re never far from Ironwood’s mind. Unlike certain teachers who take off on missions for weeks at a time and forget half the names when they come back.

“Warning,” Qrow says, and it’s apology and appreciation in one, because what else is there to say? He has to pull a bit harder than he expected to get the leg off, but it’s not stuck or anything, it’s just heavy as sin. James exhales as Qrow pulls, long and slow and shuddering and Qrow’s eyes flick up to the back of his head, like that’s going to make it the slightest bit better.

Then he looks back down at Jimmy’s lap, pitches the useless leg over his shoulder, and says with a calm he absolutely does not feel, with words he didn’t know he knew, “Más vale que me digas que eso es parte de tu femur, porque si no quiero saber cómo chingados se te paró la verga después de que te arranqué la pierna.”

Huh, Oz was right. If he kept using it, it would come naturally when the time came.

“No,” James says, heavy with shame, and Qrow re-evaluates the last twenty or so minutes in his head. He pulls out his flask and takes a sip, to give his hands something to do while he thinks about how keyed up James seemed, how he trembled under Qrow’s hands. How he tried to hide it. Qrow thought he was panicking. Well, he probably _was._ Just not that kind of panic. 

“At least you weren’t suffering,” he says, bending his head back over the open joint, because that much is true. Qrow’s almost giddy with relief that he wasn’t sending James into screaming war flashbacks. He’ll take the piss out of James as much as he can manage, bring Jimmy right to the edge, but he never wants to go over it and actually hurt him. There’s a lot of stuff hanging out ready to get caught on things. Qrow reaches for the first-aid kit. Bandages will have to do to keep everything nice and tucked inside.

And now he just has to. Somehow doing that without touching James’ dick. Jimmy’s dick which is, for some reason beyond Qrow’s comprehension, thick and rosy and very, very happy about something. He wants to, he really wants to, but James did not say he could and so he’s not going to presume this is anything but some kind of weird shock reaction that he’s never heard of in his entire life of trying to kill people. James is muttering under his breath and Qrow’s pretty sure he’s praying for the ground to open up and swallow him.

So Qrow does the kindest thing he can think of under the circumstances. He ignores it with every ounce of willpower he has. He doesn’t mention it, he doesn’t not mention it, he doesn’t look at it, he doesn’t look away from it. He doesn’t stop the back of his hand from grazing it when he needs to get close. He doesn’t move any faster than he would otherwise. He just shoves the whole mess of dangling wires and bent metal up in the gaping wound -there’s no blood, James will be fine, clearly he’s in no pain -and sticks it down with plenty of tape.

“That should be good,” he says, “at least to get you back home.”

“Thank you,” James says, like he means it. Like Qrow could have left him half-chewed. 

Then they sit there, and Qrow can see how red his ears are, and he can’t just leave him like this. He has to at least ask. Qrow’s flask is almost empty but he swallows the last few drops anyways, the motion more than the whiskey giving him courage.

“I can let you out, if you want,” he starts. “Or I could, you know.” This is stupid, he shouldn’t be tripping over his tongue like this, how many times has he managed this in a bar with someone he doesn’t know nearly as well as James?

But that’s just it, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to risk losing what he already has, doesn’t want to lose one of the last three people he can rely on. So what if it worked out with Summer and Tai. He had it once, he’s not getting it twice, and only a fool would gamble something as important as Jimmy’s friendship. Jimmy, who will breathe deep and hold on to his self control with iron will. James, who understands it’s the flask more than what’s inside that’s important, James whose first instinct is to protect and second to forgive, James who gets so angry because he just wants everything to go right and smooth, just wants people to be okay and safe.

James who’s asking, “You could what?”

And it’s not cowardice that makes Qrow say what he says next. It’s the rules. Things unspoken don’t count. “You gotta ask me for it,” he says, his hand drifting to James’ thigh. “Don’t make me guess. _Please_ ,” he says, and his voice cracks because there is nothing he wants more in the world right now than James to want Qrow to touch his dick.

There is a moment that stretches on forever, frozen in fear, melted by hope.

Then James nods, and rolls back as much as he can into Qrow, twists so he can look over his shoulder and his eyes are burning as bright as they ever do when he’s pissed off but he’s not angry now, there are two spots of color high on his cheeks and his lip is bitten red from his own teeth and he says, so sweet Qrow doubts his own ears, “I want your hand on my cock.”

Qrow sighs, he can’t help it, he’s wanted to hear those words for so long he’ll take them even though he suspects James’ excitement is entirely situational. “Gloves on or off?” he asks, remembering how James flinched when they came out.

He’s unsurprised when James says, “On,” when James’ breath catches as Qrow fishes out a fresh pair from the first aid kit. Qrow can work with this. He wants to make it good for James, wants James to not regret trusting him. 

Qrow slides behind James, takes some of his weight. Just enough to feel how he burns like metal in the sun, to feel him warm and heavy and real. On a guess, he pulls the gloves on in front of James’ face, the thick chemical scent of latex heavy in the air, and is rewarded with a shiver he can feel running down James’ spine. “Probably should make sure you’re not hurt anywhere else,” he says, one hand on James’ chest.

James Ironwood has no heart. That is rule number one of the game, and the only one Qrow’s ever broken. He didn’t know it was a rule then, he didn’t know there was a game then. Just that there was a bad guy in Ozpin’s office, and an interrogation Qrow prefers to think about as little as possible, and this new other headmaster had been so calm Qrow had cursed him for a heartless bastard.

He’s still not okay with everything he’s seen the General do, but he won’t call him heartless again. There’s a short list of things he’d rather see than that look on James’ face again, and none of them would be prevented by hurting James like that twice. Sometimes he feels like he could spend the rest of his life apologizing for it and never earn forgiveness.

James gave it to him anyways.

So Qrow never, ever mentions it, especially not now when James’ breath is stutter-stepping tripping over itself and his pulse is machine-steady under Qrow’s palm. Just runs his hands up James’ arms as high as he can reach and traces down, over metal and flesh alike. James is solid as mountains under his fingers, and Qrow maps out every angle and curve with his latex-smooth hands, shoulders to hips, a little past on his left leg. Back up and down again just because, James’ head tipping back until it’s resting on Qrow’s shoulder and when Qrow presses his mouth against James’ temple he tastes clean honest sweat salty on his lips. Up and down again and again, a little firmer each time, and under the gloves his palms ache with how close they are to still be denied. 

“Seem okay to me,” he says, right in James’ ear, “you feeling any pain?” James’ reply is an inarticulate whine, so. That’s a no. “Lemme just make sure your cock’s still working,” Qrow rolls James’ balls in his palm, feels them heavy and hot. “Since it’s all swollen for some reason.”

The noise that tears its way out of James’ throat is three parts frustration to every one of desire, as Qrow sides his hand up around the shaft. James has a really, _really_ nice cock, probably personally designed and custom-built. Qrow takes a minute to explore its heft, his other hand drifting to James’ right hip without really meaning to. He ends up fiddling with a loose end of bandage, smoothing bubbles out of the tape, and that’s when he learns something _real_ interesting.

The more he plays with the jagged edge of the wound, the harder James’ cock gets, until he has to slide his fingers down and squeeze to keep James from coming before he’s done with his fun. He’s brought Jimmy to the edge again, and this time Qrow manages to get him over, though it’s not a snapping of control so much as it drifting into Qrow’s hand gentle as snowflakes. It’s so much warmer than he ever expected victory to be, tucked behind his ribs. James isn’t making any noises now, just harsh pants but he’s not saying stop and Qrow dips his fingers inside the hole as far as he dares.

James’ back arches as much as he can in the rope, his mouth open in a silent scream, and his cock jumps and pulses over Qrow’s hand, coming so hard he hits himself halfway up the chest. Qrow works him through it, determined to get every last bit he can since apparently he’s not going to be allowed to take his time. Jimmy turns his head and mouths his surrender into Qrow’s neck, and Qrow would almost swear electricity sparks blue from his lips as he falls over the edge. Qrow swallows his own whimper as James twists, pushing back into Qrow’s body then bucking into his hands like he can’t decide what he wants more, his breath coming in heaving sobs as he finally hangs limp.

Qrow reaches up and releases the knots, catches James before he can fall and lays him out, brushes a kiss over his forehead. There’s wipes in the medkit to clean him up, and then Qrow peels off the gloves, leans over him and strokes over the fine tremors running through James’ body, until he’s settled and sated, until he grabs Qrow and pulls him down like a spindly blanket, cups his hand over the nape of Qrow’s neck.

“When we get back,” James says, and he has to pause to catch his breath, and Qrow may be smirking a little too proudly at that, “I am going to buy you one _hell_ of a dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
